


Right in the moment (let me fall)

by transgenicveins



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bon Iver, Car Sex, Fluff, M/M, just car!feelings in general, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgenicveins/pseuds/transgenicveins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'They're in that awkward space between casual snogs and being each other's pied a terre</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(alternatively: Zayn and Liam's relationship in four different vehicles)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right in the moment (let me fall)

**Author's Note:**

> based on Bon Iver's "Blood Bank", cross-posted from lj, and written circa May 2012.

Of all the things that are just Liam and Zayn’s (the nicotine patches, the quoted Oscar Wilde under blankets, the bacon sandwiches, the running tally of reluctant adolescent males in their audiences), the country drives are Liam’s favourite.

  
Not that Zayn knows that, of course. They’re in that awkward space between casual snogs and being each other’s pied à terre- though, if Liam’s honest, Zayn feels more at home than Wolverhampton, and has since the second week of the competition- and they haven’t yet managed to put whispered words to the erratic heartbeats their touching bodies produce.

  
Which can be considered eight types of ridiculous, really, because Liam’s the go-to-therapist of the band and Zayn considers himself the second coming of Confucius, fixing the world’s problems, one tweet at a time.

  
It doesn’t matter, though- that they’re not writing sonnets between sets- because the feeling of complying to gravity and existing in the odd space between the clouds and the sea makes Liam feel more alive than he ever has.

  
Besides, if they collide with the sea, their drives might start requiring a destination, and that is so ironically _counter-productive_ it makes Liam shiver.

  
The first drive had been during the lull between the competition and the competition’s tour. The five of them weren’t quite famous, yet, but London was so _suffocating_ , all the sudden, seven-point-five million people too full.

  
It was in those three weeks that Zayn started smoking and while the sixteen-year-old-boy half of Liam couldn’t help but admire the raspy voice and how those long fingers held the fag, the louder half couldn’t help the lecture of ‘ _excess carbon monoxide damaged alveoli throat cancer tongue cancer gangrene yellow teeth Zayn you’re too pretty for yellow teeth_ ’.

  
It was somewhere in the _in-between_ of those three weeks- in-between the frustrated stares between Harry and Louis, too confusing and _new_ to be acted on, and the cancer sticks and Niall bleaching his hair about six different times that Liam decided-

  
_no. stop. pause._

  
He wasn’t oblivious. He could _feel_ the pressure of the future hanging over them like the moon, so beautiful and terrifying at once. He knew that everything was going to change and that he wouldn’t get to be a boy and would instead get to be one fifth of One Direction and that was brilliant, honestly, it was everything he wanted, but still-

  
_no. stop. pause._

  
Zayn had noticed it first, while Niall was in the bathroom and Harry and Louis were trying their best not to touch (oh, how Liam misses those days). The Bradford boy had always been the most perceptive of the five of them, so when Liam’s hands shook around his glass of juice, he’d thrown on a letter jacket and tugged Liam off the couch and guided him to the driver’s seat of his uncle’s car.

  
Zayn had wrapped an arm around the back of the driver’s seat, ignoring Liam’s protests of- ‘ _this is illegal’_ and said “Just drive, Li, until you can’t see the road ahead.”

  
And so it had started.

  
(Truthfully, there was more to the first time- there was the way Liam dared glances at Zayn in the passenger seat, and the way their fingers had accidentally collided when fiddling with the heat, and the way they had switched between some classics station and a Hot 40 countdown, and the way they’d heard their cover song for the first time and just about _screamed_ to one another, and the way they found an indie station that was so unknown and so _theirs_. But Liam likes to keep those parts to himself.)

  


///

  


It’s different when they’re on tour, of course. The crowds are rougher and they follow them _everywhere_ , and Liam can’t even begin to explain how weird it is to have a group of girls taking photos of the five of them between the aisles of a supermarket.

  
Sometimes, sleeping next to Zayn is enough.

  
But others, usually when Liam’s confined to that plaid shirt after a show, the plaid shirt he doesn’t even _like_ , the plaid shirt that’s suffocating them with their image, the plaid shirt that reminds him that he can’t _remember_ the last time he sang something that wasn’t theirs-

  
_no. stop. pause._

  
Zayn wraps his aristocratic fingers around Liam’s wrist and leads him to the front of the tour bus. They’re between cities and the road ahead is dark and they’re still wearing their designated clothes, but Zayn’s touching Liam’s skin and not his shirt and there’s something so very _beautiful_ about that alone.

  
“Pull over,” Zayn pleads, and the driver shoots them a strange look but complies anyway. It’s cold outside, but the pressure on Liam’s wrist is enough to keep him warm.

  
They hail the car trailing them and Paul glares, but agrees to sleep in the tour bus instead.

  
Before they climb in, Zayn tugs at the cuff of the plaid and hands him a knit jumper. “You’re still Liam Payne to me,” he says softly, and Liam can’t help the smile that takes over his lips.

  
(He also can’t help pressing Zayn against the uncomfortable metal door and kissing him softly for the very first time, much to the amusement of Harry, Louis and Niall, watching from the back window of the bus.)

  


///

  


A few weeks later, Zayn receives the phone call and Liam’s so at loss as to how to help him. They drive together to the airport and they don’t kiss at the stoplights, like they usually do. Instead, Liam keeps one hand on the wheel and the other loosely tangled in the neckline of Zayn’s shirt, and sings old rock songs quietly while he sleeps.

  
When they arrive, Liam tugs him closer and presses their foreheads together. “It’s not okay yet,” he says quietly, as their noses brush clumsily, “but I swear to _God_ I will make this better when you come home.”

  
Zayn mumbles a soft goodbye and Liam _most definitely does not_ tear up, watching him disappear through customs, wearing Liam’s grey pea coat.

  


///

  


It’s a week after and Zayn’s still gone and everyone’s noticing.

  
“Zayn’s calling you in five minutes,” Louis says, crawling into Liam’s bed. “Try to remove the _pining_ from your vocal chords.”

  
“I am not _pining_ ,” Liam scowls, smacking Louis’ shoulder with his copy of A Tale of Two Cities. “And I am capable of calling my own bandmate.”

  
Louis scoffs and cuddles closer. “Hey Niall,” he yells, and a mop of blonde hair peeks out from the bathroom. “Who do you associate with ‘moping’?”

  
“Mister Payne, on your left,” Niall teases.

  
Louis laughs and, somehow, the blankets tangle around their legs with little movement on their behalf. “And Curly, my sugar, would you classify Zayn as Liam’s ‘bandmate’?”

  
Harry appears from under his pile of pillows and shoots the two of them a grin. “If by ‘bandmate’ you mean ‘star of Liam’s increasingly frequent wet dreams’, then of course.”

  
Liam groans and smothers his blush in his book. “You’re all tossers and I hate you and I wish I was a soloist,” he mumbles, and the three of them roar with laughter and crawl onto his bed.

  
“You love us, baby,” Niall cooes, from the crook of his elbow. “And you’re far too pretentious to be a soloist.”

  
“Besides,” Harry says, with his legs straddling Liam’s waist, “everything would be different if we weren’t in a band. Think about it- we wouldn’t have had that weekend in Sweden or those dinners in New York and I’d be missing four best friends.”

  
Louis makes a soft noise of approval and shifts from Liam’s collarbone to bury a hand in Harry’s hair and tug him close. “Fuck,” he says huskily, their lips brushing together. “I love it when you get all nostalgic and charming.”

  
Harry grins and they’re kissing, now, all messy and happy and enthusiastic, and Liam can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips or the rush of affection that curdles in his stomach.

  
They pull apart, of course, when Liam’s phone buzzes persistently on the dresser. “Oh, loverboy,” Harry laughs, in a dreadful mimic of _Dirty Dancing_. He swipes the phone and fumbles over the ‘answer’ button and shoves it in Liam’s face.

  
He blushes and takes the offered phone. “Hey you,” he mumbles quietly.

  
“Come back to bed, honey,” Niall teases, and Liam’s heart skips a beat when Zayn laughs, low and throaty, through the line.

  
“Hey, Li,” Zayn says softly as Liam struggles under the pile of boy. He escapes in one piece (without one sock) and closes the hallway door on the cries of ‘ _we are emotionally invested in you two, Liam, we have a right to listen!’_.

  
“How’s Bradford?” he asks politely, not even bothering to hold back the- “I miss you.”

  
Zayn sighs sleepily and Liam’s heart almost melts. “I miss you too,” he says quietly. “This city has a terrifying lack of good coffee.”

  
Liam grins and fiddles with the neckline of his loose t-shirt. “I’ll have a vanilla latte waiting for you when you land.”

  
“And a car,” Zayn suggests nonchalantly, and Liam doesn’t even bother to hide his grin in his shoulder.

  
“And a car,” Liam repeats happily.

  
They settle into a wonderful silence and their breaths sync up, thousands of kilometres apart. “All the photos of you-” Zayn starts, faltering before adding- “You look _incredible_ , Li, just-”

  
Liam brushes his hand awkwardly over his crotch and tries to hold back the whine of encouragement. “We could-” he mumbles, and the remnant of the blush from the boys is taken over by a whole different burn. “We could fuck.”

  
“ _Li_ ,” Zayn groans, equal parts mortified and aroused. “You can’t-”

  
“Have,” he laughs. “ _Can_.”

  
Their breathing synchronises, again, and Liam can see that ocean now, but the-

  
_no. stop. pause._

  
\- is lacking.

  
“Babe?” Zayn says softly, and Liam should feel emasculated, but his every cell throbs in approval. “Please don’t drive with anyone else.”

  
Liam grins, and he can taste the salt, smell the sand, feel the fucking sunshine. “Literally or figuratively?”

  
Zayn laughs. “Both.”

  
Liam nods and he knows Zayn can’t see him, but he also knows that Zayn can tell.

  
(They’re silent for a long time after that, and when Louis peeks around the corner to investigate, he finds Liam asleep for the first time in days and Zayn doing the same through the phone)

  


///

  
At the Brit Awards, month or so later, when their single has won over fucking _Adele’s_ song and Harry and Louis are pulling each other close and all the cameras are focussing on them, Zayn whispers to Liam ‘there’s a car waiting around the block’, barely audible over the roaring crowd.

  
The euphoria drowns out the-

  
_no. stop. pause._

  
\- as they accept their trophy and grab champagne and shake hands with eighty different artists who seem so much more _deserving_ than the five of them., Then they’re being interviewed and it’s a rush of ‘ _what are your plans where are you touring is your sound changing are you sticking to your brand what about the other artists are you collaborating what’s next Liam you’re the sensible one what’s next’_ and blood is rushing to his head and he’s going to _faint_ -

  
But Zayn grabs the back of his collar and holds him down like an anchor and Liam’s so grateful for Louis and Harry, practically _radiating_ affection in an attempt to keep the cameras off Liam, so no one notices the way he fingers at Zayn’s forearm tattoo.

  
The two of them pose politely for the cameras and sneak out of the building after one last group moment of _‘holy fuck’_.

  
Zayn drags him through the busy city and they duck into an alternative record store and they must be a sight, with messy hair and half removed suits, but the assistant smiles and says a quiet ‘congratulations’ and turns back to her laptop without a second thought.

  
He grins at Zayn and they automatically turn to the racks. Liam resists the urge to kiss him the first three times their fingers brush together and purposefully does it a fourth time, pulling him close by his blazer and kissing him roughly.

  
Zayn smirks against his mouth and nips playfully on his lower lip. Their hands are everywhere, sneaking between buttons and ruffling hair and grasping at jaws and they’re getting carried away with lust, but this is the first time they’ve been alone in _weeks_ , since the suggestion over the phone, and Liam’s not satisfied with clumsy groping anymore.

  
“You taste like champagne,” Liam mumbles, as Zayn’s fingers slip dangerously close to his arse.

  
Zayn laughs throatily and checks the assistant and windows before lowering his hand, pushing their erections together. “You taste like strawberry lip balm,” he teases, and they’re about six seconds from thrusting their way to orgasm when the assistant clears her throat.

  
“There’s a hoard of paparazzi around the corner trying to sniff you out,” she says casually, and the two of them jump apart, “in case that’s necessary information.”

  
Liam grins at her and they resume shuffling through the racks and a clump of men in trackpants and sneakers jog past.

  
“Manchester Orchestra or Bon Iver?” Zayn asks softly, and Liam spares a glance at the two CDs.

  
“Bon Iver,” Liam offers and they grin at each other and pay for the record, but not before posing for a webcam photo with the assistant at their insistence.

  
They’re silent as they drive through the city and Zayn automatically turns up the music as skyline fades in the distance.

  
It’s raining outside and the traffic is light and Liam’s going a tiny bit faster than legally accepted, but that’s okay because it feels like it’s just the two of them in the world.

  
Their fingers tangle together around the gear stick.

  
“The band would be nothing without you,” Zayn says quietly, just audible over the ‘ _come on skinny love, just last the year’_.

  
 “The body can function without the liver,” Liam says, and he knows it probably makes no sense, but that’s the organ he sees himself as (Harry’s the heart, Niall’s the spinal cord, Louis’ the aorta, Zayn’s the lungs).

  
“Don’t be a wanker,” Zayn scowls affectionately. “You’re more like the brain. Or maybe the throat.”

  
“Why the throat?” Liam asks curiously, and out of the corner of his eye, Zayn’s shedding his blazer and loosening the first button on his shirt.

  
“Well, the body can’t function without carbon or oxygen and sometimes it’s like you’re the source of both.”

  
Liam grins and squeezes Zayn’s hand. He squeezes back.

  
It’s bordering on three am and it’s so _dark_ , out here, the only sources of light being the crescent moon and the high beam lights and those of the dashboard, playing with the contours of Zayn’s cheekbones. They’re approaching a hill and Liam can’t see over the top and Zayn grins. The echo of ‘ _until you can’t see the road ahead’_ hangs unspoken in the air.

  
Liam automatically pulls the car over, careful to secure the handbrake, and twists to face Zayn. He’s staring at Liam and it’s just the two of them and-

  
_no. stop. pause._

  
\- but for a whole different reason.

  
Zayn sings along and this is the other side of the boy, the one that everyone ponders but never gets to see, and there’s something stuck at the roof of Liam’s mouth that he doesn’t quite know how to word.

  
Zayn’s fingers are rubbing Liam’s.

  
“I love your hands,” Liam says softly, and their breaths synchronise with little effort.

  
He grins and twists a little more. “I love your neck.”

  
Liam blushes and subconsciously swallows, oblivious to the way Zayn watches the movement. “I love the colour of your eyes, right now, when it looks like they’re almost black.”

  
“I love your lips,” Zayn admits quietly. There’s not enough air in the car, but it’s raining so heavily outside and they’re just about stuck here, on the side of a silent road. “I love the way they are after a show, all bitten and pink and soft.”

  
There’s something about the way Zayn’s watching him that makes everything- the rain, the music, Liam’s whole _body_ , bar his heart- disappear.

  
“I’m in love with-” Liam mumbles out, before he can stop himself, and Zayn’s breath hitches and he can’t finish the sentence and the world churns to a stop. “Your honour,” he says clumsily.

  
Zayn stares at him seriously for a moment and lets out a soft whine, climbing across the console to straddle Liam’s lap, their hands still entwined. He ducks to press a gentle kiss to Liam’s lips and doesn’t pull away. “I’m in love with your cheeks,” he says casually, and their hearts are throbbing against each other.

  
Liam groans and wraps an arm around Zayn’s waist and Bon Iver is practically whispering into their ears and when their bare chests touch for the first time in weeks, both of them let out a mumble of approval.

  
Zayn’s tugging at the sleeves of his shirt and in an effort to expose their forearms, they accidentally beep the horn.

  
They grin against each other’s lips and Liam would feel embarrassed, but Zayn’s already fiddling with the button of his trousers with one hand and doing the same to himself with the other. There’s an awkward moment as they shove down their pants and boxers and Liam’s prodded with Zayn’s knees in three different ribs, but suddenly there’s so much more _skin_ and Liam’s too busy watching their erections slide together to feel any pain.

  
“We could fuck,” Zayn offers quietly, as they lose themselves in the sensation. “We could get in the backseat and go slow and keep the music on-”

  
Liam shakes his head in weak refusal and instead wraps a hand clumsily around both of their erections. They groan into each other’s mouths. “Or we could save that for a mattress,” Liam suggests. “And candles. And maybe even proper lubricant.”

  
Zayn laughs and looks like he’s about to say something, but instead he winks and thrusts into Liam’s loose fist and they lose themselves in the feeling and the moment and each other and it’s so cheesy but still so _right_.

  
Liam comes first (because of Zayn’s cock against his and their tongues sliding together and the hand in his hair and their entwined fingers) and Zayn follows a heartbeat after (because of Liam’s cock against his and the soft whine Liam makes and the nails clawing at his back and the feel of Liam’s smile against his).

  
They laugh in a beat of silence and Zayn rearranges himself to cuddle closer.

  
They’re watching their fingers twist around each other when Zayn nuzzles into the hollow of Liam’s neck. “I’m also in love with you,” Zayn says softly, and Liam can’t stop the crinkle of his eyes.

  
“I’m in love with you too,” he admits, and Zayn grins before pressing a soft kiss to his jaw and they’re hitting the ocean, now, and all Liam can think of is-

  
_yes. play. keep going._

 


End file.
